


Handbook for Empty Nesters

by thegeologicalmother



Category: Disney Duck Universe, DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gen, Old Married Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegeologicalmother/pseuds/thegeologicalmother
Summary: “We have a gate.”“I climbed the gate.”“The door was locked.”"Well, it isn't going to change the fact that your boss is the baby daddy," she huffed, thrusting the infant into Duckworth's arms. "Now, babysit."--In the wake of The Spear of Selene, Scrooge was trapped in a prison of his own making, but life's risks don't stop when you try to hide.And neither does family.





	1. Chapter 1

A day was a week. A week was a year. Silence hibernated in that niche center of Time’s body and smothered the mansion.

Up and down Duckworth moved. Quiet corridors could not evade his feather duster. How it brushed over furniture, curtains, and art with the promise of liberation from their dusty prison. He made dusting an art, doing it far more regularly compared to his colleagues. Vigor was a requirement for his station.

As he worked, he realized something was not right, had not been right for some time. What differed, he may have asked. He knew better than to vocalize his question. What he did he did out of pride and joy, and yet, there was none in his strokes. He moved in horizontal motions that

Something was different. Something wasn't right. His work was a source of pride and joy, personal fulfillment that he took personally. The longer his horizontal motions stroked and the more dust and grime were extracted, the stronger the feeling grew.

It was the silence.

Duckworth preferred quiet. He was a levelled man, a calm man, and restricted speech to necessary terms, deeming frivolous conversation to be a waste of time and oxygen. That had not changed in the past fifteen years, and he knew it would never change, not truly. Something about crashes and shouts and rapid fire questions had strengthened his tolerance.

At the window, wiping away stains that were not there, he was tempted to ask what happened to that horrible noise. Where are the children, he wanted to ask, and therefore, its bitter reminder struck him in the back of his head. Staring at his reflection, he lowered his head and continued down the corridor. He was relieved Mr. McDuck was at the bin. The consequences for the slip were dire had he slipped up in front of his employer.

He moved to the trophy room where Mr. McDuck kept the treasures of his conquest that were too precious for the money bin and did not require containment in the other bin. He opened the door and sniffed; the room was properly dusted and groomed a day ago. He tested a shelf critically and glared at the thin, almost transparent spot of dust on his gloved finger. Unsatisfactory. His work resumed. Each and every shelf was properly sprayed and de-dusted. Another quick swipe produced satisfactory results, and Duckworth nodded, smiling grimly.

His standards appeased, his attention curved to the center of the room. On a stone pedestal normally reserved for priceless art relics, encased in industrial reinforced glass, was the Klondike gold nugget Scrooge coveted and adored. It did not need to be said how much Mr. McDuck adored this particular treasure, the symbol of his work ethic and accomplishment. Duckworth tittered quietly and grabbed a clean polishing towel and a bottle of polishing spray.

It lasted no more than ten minutes. Mostly a round object, the odd dents and angles of the nugget proved more cumbersome than he last remembered. A negligent sign in his opinion, it should have never come to this, but he removed dust and dirt until the gold glittered. For some reason, he did not smile. Smiling at his golden reflection felt obscene, and knowing the chances of this room ever holding a visitor or a new treasure was slim to none. He began to walk away. His cleaning was done for the day, but there was still work to do. He needed to plan the next executive board meeting to determine where the reserves for the rescue attempts.  
  
All knew its death was imminent. The board denied Mr. McDuck’s offer for the first rescue attempt, and to their horror, he immediately went to this reserves. Duckworth’s stomach twisted at the thought of it. It was only a matter of time before the board attacked that sad solution.

Duckworth sighed sadly. He gripped the doorframe, unable to meet his reflection on the window across the hall. For now, the plan continued. His hope dwindled at what would become of Mr. McDuck once the board made their strike; they weren’t a patient or compassion group of buzzards.

“Hello?”

He wanted, for a brief moment, to believe the voice he heard was his imagination. He wanted to simply forget his troubles, but accepted the responsibility his station called for. He walked briskly to where the voice called from, relieved that it was not multiple voices or a warped tone used for nefarious purposes. He did not need a repeat of Netherworld II.

Duckworth was amused when he came upon the foyer, where the voice echoed the loudest. He raised one eyebrow in silent questioning but said nothing as he approached the young woman downstairs. Her appearance was normal; a pair of denim jeans and a magenta shirt. Her ruddy blond hair was tousled into a neat shape, akin to the style of Lauren Macawall. She moved around the foyer, never crossing the invisible boundaries into the other rooms. Her calls were loudly and somehow respectful, carrying an appropriate amount of self-awareness in her tone.

She wanted to be discovered, and at the same time, she feared the consequences of discovery. Duckworth’s lips twitched. At least, he reasoned, she did not seem malicious.

He approached cautiously. There was no urgency in his footsteps. He raised his snout at her, and sidestepped in front her. She was in the middle of another call when he seemingly appeared out of thin air, and she clamped her mouth shut, scrambling backwards. He saw that she shouldered a pair of oversized bags and nearly lost balance, but she caught her misstep and pushed forward.

“A minor inconvenience for breaking and entering, I suppose,” Duckworth said crisply.

The young woman’s orange-brown cheeks reddened. “Let me start with an apology,” she opened her palms in surrender, “and that I am not trying to rob or assassinate or whatever you think I am doing. I am telling you I am not doing that.”

“We have a gate.”

“I climbed the gate.”

“The door was locked.”

She sucked in between her teeth. “I used this,” she extracted a medium-sized key from out of her back pocket. Duckworth glared in surprise.

“That is an inertia key,” he said flatly.

“It is,” she confirmed.  
  
He breathed through his nose. "There are seven in existence," his slow speech hid his curiosity. 

“Actually six now, one got lost in a plasma explosion,” she chuckled, shaking her head as her pumpkin shaded hair curled around her. She met his stare and flinched. “But that is not why you’re interested, right.”

“I would normally ask where did you acquire such a thing, but considering the circumstances, I will permit the law enforcement to interrogate you once you are in custody.”

Her cheeks burned like rubies. “No, no, you do not have to call the cops,” she panicked, stepping forward with her arms raised. “I’m only here because I couldn’t get into contact with Goldie!”

He squinted, then glared. “Goldie,” he teased the name out of his mouth like it were jerky, which he had never eaten. “Goldie O'Gilt I presume?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Last time I heard from her she was in Moscow,” she waved the last part off. “All I know is that I heard singing. There was this giant musical number, and I asked her when she was coming back...she said whenever she got the Last Tsar’s Egg. But that’s been a month ago, and I am now positive that she’s in a gulag somewhere.”

“And this has to do with Mr. McDuck how?”

“I tried calling the private number I am never, ever supposed to use under any circumstances,” she placed her hands on her back where her kidneys were located, “and if she finds out, she is definitely going to kill me, but the only reason I am here is because he didn’t answer his private phone line. And when I went to my parents, they started freaking out. I told them the baby was too white to be mine. They didn’t believe me. I told them I was too broke to adopt. That they accepted.”

“Of course they did,” he said. It was then his eyebrows rose, and he tilted his head, certain he had heard the woman incorrectly. “You said baby?”

“Right!” She snapped her fingers, “Baby, the baby.” She dropped the bags - now, diaper bags Duckworth realized, and unstrapped the straps on her shoulders. “Yeah, I need you to watch her.” She unstrapped the child off her back and presented the infant, an erroneous term to use for her.

Duckworth guessed the child was closer to one than newborn. Six months, he presumed. No older than six months. A little chubbier than the average duckling, but it’d been a long time since he’d seen an infant duckling. Her hair impressed him, if only for the familiarity. A striking orange that was neither curly or straight, somewhere puffy in between. It was then he realized the child was startlingly close to him and was reaching for him with tiny fists.

He stepped back. “I will do no such thing,” he coughed into his hand. “If you mean to suggest that the child has been fathered by Mr. McDuck -,”

“It isn’t a suggestion. He is the daddy,” the woman replied tartly.

“And you’re sure Miss O’Gilt laid the egg?”

“Seeing that I have awoken to my own screams,” she thrust the baby into his chest, trusting he would not let her fall, “due to standing next to her as she laid the very egg this kid hatched out of, I can confirm she is the momma. Unless Goldie's a chimera, then that'd made her the surrogate mother, but no less important than a biological mother.”

“A mother,” Duckworth whispered, amazed. “A father?” He stretched the baby away from him, almost disgusted at the sight of her. “Mr. McDuck surely would have known.”

“Yes, Goldie would've totally told him she was pregnant so soon after The Spear of Selene. That makes a lot of sense,” she rolled her shoulders, exasperated. “He was going to find out when she wanted him to find out, and from her 

Duckworth stared at the woman, stared at her long and good. There were a million questions he wanted to ask, a million questions that could have been asked. He settled for one.

“Your name?”

“My name?”

“And hers.”

“Linda Paper,” she exhaled. “Had a hard time telling the nurses I wasn’t her mother’s younger lover.” She eyed him suspiciously, “You’re going to watch her?”

Duckworth shifted uncomfortably, pressing the child to his chest. “Your claims can always be verified with a test,” he said sharply, “and if what you say is true, then Mr. McDuck will not be home for several hours.”

“He’s still trying isn’t he,” she asked softly.

“Convincing him otherwise has proven an abominable task,” Duckworth replied. “I shall care for the child until his return. I believe he ought to know and would appreciate knowing.”

“Yes, yes, and I’ll be here to deal with all that crap at 5:00 p.m.,” she grinned, waving at the baby. She cooed, poking her cheek, “Now, Iris, you be a good girl.”

“Iris?”

“Yes, Iris,” she glanced at him. “She hasn’t a nap yet, so it should be easy to get her down for about two hours. She’s got diapers and bottles and formula and all that other good stuff, don’t we sugar egg.”

Iris babbled happily, reaching for her, but Duckworth’s ears appealed to her. She gripped the one closest to her and tugged as hard as her small fists could allow.

He winced. “Yes, I see,” he winced some more. “You should go.”

“Right! Exam day!” She ran to the door and waved back at the baby, “I will be back for five, and we will have a great conversation with your dad. Hopefully, your mommy isn’t dead somewhere in the gulag.”

“Ms. Paper -,”

“Sorry,” she closed the door and disappeared.

Pain flared in his ear. He glared at the child now climbing up his chest, grasping the aforementioned ear. Giggling and babbling, she fixated on his ear. It was uncomfortable and irritating. He had not held an infant in more than fifty years, not even the children that lived here were ones he held often, just the occasional time when they fell asleep anywhere except their room and needed assistance in getting into bed.

Naturally, this was easier than carrying a pair of ten year olds, even the eggs that were intended to hatc weren’t as difficult as this hyperactive baby.

“I see now,” he chuckled. “Iris, is it? Yes, you have his eyes.” He patted her bottom and bent to grab one of her diaper bags, “Now, now, little one. Lets get you down for your nap.”

Spittle bubbles popped out of her mouth, and she blinked before giggling. Duckworth, despite his quiet preference, laughed aloud. Their laughter was not enough to fill the mansion, not that he expected it to, but he conceded the sound was welcoming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goldie makes an announced visit. Good thing she has child support.

“Mrs. McDuck will arrive at noon for the children,” Mrs. Beakley said at six in the morning, presenting his breakfast. "She will return them in time for their formal training exam."

An equable grunt reassured her that her words had reached. His acknowledge did little to slake her irritation; she glared stiffly at her employer. "Mr. McDuck," she continued in a cool tone. "You should say goodbye to your daughter. You will not see her for a month, at the very least."

 _An interesting word_...he cast a shrewd glare over the stock market report... _Plural, singular. You._ Common assumptions led to the singular, but Scrooge wasn't the sort of man to make needless assumptions. His housekeeper's insinuations were clear. Her intent chiseled at him, and for refusing to wound his pride by playing dumb, his scowl deepened.

But for reasons he couldn't claim complete ignorance of, he didn't dismiss her suggestion.“You can call her down,” he replied flatly. “Has she eaten breakfast?”

She nodded, satisfied. “She’s upstairs with Webbigail,” she answered and turned to leave. Her heels clicked on, growing ever more quiet until they silenced completely on the ascending stairs.

Mrs. Beakley found the children in their shared room, not a bedroom but a room where their dinners were held. She smiled softly at the sight. Webby was seated to the right, eating a plate of strawberry pancakes. Iris was to the left, slicing her blueberry pancakes into small bite size pieces. Quiet chatter flooded the room. Lost in a discussion of some paranormal phenomena recently recorded on the news, they almost didn't hear her enter the room. Mrs. Beakley spoke gently, almost apologetic at disturbing their conversation.

“Iris, dear, your father is about to leave for work and would like to say goodbye,” she said. Mrs. Beakley studied the girl’s blank expression that broke into something far more light hearted and excited. She grabbed a napkin to wipe her mouth and skipped out the room, forgetting to straighten the wrinkles out of her plaid skirt.

She skipped all the way down, right up until she made it to the dining foyer. Mrs. Beakley trailed after her and knew Webby was not far behind, more for moral support than anything else. Her skips waned the closer she got and stopped completely when she saw him at the foyer, an impatient scowl threatened to twist his beak. The child did not flinch or wince or tremble under his unnerving glare. She curtsied and smiled, a ridiculous smile that made Mrs. Beakley’s heart ache.

“Your mother will take you for the month,” Mr. McDuck said. “What do you plan to do during your vacation?”

She tucked her finger under her bill. “I’m not sure,” she admitted thoughtfully, “Gigi said she wanted to visit Hondorica, and there was evidence of a unicorn in South America.”

“A one horn war horse,” Webby gasped at Mrs. Beakley’s side.

Scrooge nodded but didn't smile. Mrs. Beakley liked to think this was his obtuse way of expressing approval, but for a child of ten, or an adult of thirty, she knew its touch was harshly felt.

“Good, good,” he said briskly. “Listen to your mother and behave yourselves,” he sent a pointed stare to Webby, who blushed in response. “I will see you next month.”

“Bye,” she waved.

Their routine continued. No hug. No pat on the head. No _I love yous_. His acknowledgement was colder than bitter frost and was like a fingernail on the surface, inadequate of satisfying a lonely child's needs, but where another would have burst in tears, thrown a temper tantrum at their father's frank dismissal, Iris stood still. When the door closed, she turned on her heels and grinned, clapping that it was time for them to get ready for her mother’s arrival.

Optimism like hers was unique, and that should've comforted Mrs. Beakley. But she refused to be comforted. Her concerns resided where optimism ended underneath the gentle coat Iris clung to, but Mrs. Beakley knew her misgivings were inappropriate for the day. The girls were excited for a month of adventure and treasure, and she wasn't going to mar it with her fears.

“Alright girls,” she ushered them upstairs. “Finish your breakfast. You have a long day ahead of you.”

* * *

An arrow doused in flame zipped behind Mrs. Beakley's head in the middle of window cleaning. Having wiped the glass to perfection, its reflection was crisp.

Its target, unfortunately, was not so crisp and quickly made imperfect. Her attention strayed from glass to paper, and she spotted the still flaming arrow that resided in the painting, right on the dress train. Mrs. Beakley sighed and freed the offending weapon, exacerbating the wound further; paint and paper coiled, blackening into wilted shreds. She blew softly, stopping its progress, and frowned. The hole was noticeable, but not irreplaceable. Mr. McDuck’s personal artist died some years past, but fortunately, his successor was alive.

“I’ll have to give Mr. Rosa a call,” she said. “And as for you, which one was it?”

She did not have to turn around to know who was standing behind her, but she did so that they could behold her glare's full power.

Iris and Webby flinched, stepping forward sheepishly, and their appearance answered what she already knew. Iris held a crossbow awkwardly. It was too large for her small grip. Mrs. Beakley tittered, shaking her head, and walked to the girls, arms crossed and stare firm.

“May I ask where did you get this,” she asked.

Iris looked at her feet. “Gigi gave it to me when she returned from The Dark Ages,” she admitted quietly. “I wanted to test it out.”

“You know the rules Iris Agate,” Mrs. Beakely said firmly, “target practice is an outdoor activity, and your island training isn't until next month.” Her glare tightened on the crossbow, “And surely, your mother would've gifted you a crossbow you were capable of carrying. You hit an oil painting.”

“I did,” she grinned, sheepishness receding.

“Iris,” Mrs. Beakely said.

“Sorry.”  
  
Mrs. Beakley turned to Webby. “Webby, darling, please make sure she returns the crossbow to its proper place,” she instructed, “and I will check. I want bows and arrows. Do you remember what we’ve said about crossbows?”

Webby nodded. “Crossbows lock and break, and soon you’ll bleed red because you’re dead.”

“That’s my girl.”

* * *

Webby’s room smelled of lemon tarts. Iris liked lemon tarts, but she pouted when Webby confiscated her crossbow. She placed it in the weapon case where all weapons were contained. A safety precaution, Mrs. Beakley told them, as Webby had proven responsible for their usage.

Anger was an accessible emotion Iris preferred not to touch, and finding fault in another person was just as easy. But Webby was her friend, almost a sister if not for their dissimilar genetic coding, and the last thing she wanted to do was alienate her best (and closest and best and only) friend in the world. Iris dragged her suitcase to Webby’s room and plopped in her orange scented bed. She wondered what laundry detergent Mrs. Beakley used. Iris’s bed sheets smelled of roses.

After locking the weapon closet, Webby went to her dressing table and pulled out her glitter covered journal. Iris didn’t know what was inside the journal. She asked one time, and Webby pulled an enigmatic response, stating mysteries that even Mr. McDuck had yet to solve. Her face had taken on a grotesque form. Her voice had grown cold. Iris conceded it was a mystery she was not ready to solve either, but sitting where she was, she doubted mysteries were at the forefront of Webby’s mind.

“Where do you think she’ll take us this time,” Webby asked as she flipped through her pages. “ Hondorica or Wronguay. Isn’t there a fountain of youth?”

“I’d like to visit Pandemonium,” Iris said, falling back on the mattress. “A trip to Demogorgona wouldn’t hurt.”

Webby giggled. “You know we’re not allowed to leave this dimension...again,” she said after a moment’s time, “Granny was furious when she heard about the Demogorgona Uprising.”

“The General was nice enough to send us home when he realized we had nothing to do with the theft,” Iris added. He’d been a kind, honorable man, far better than the army he led. “And as long as Gigi stays away from that particular dimension, we’re more than welcome to visit.”

“If we are going to go to another dimension, I’d like to visit Maleficient’s domain,” Webby closed her book, “no one has found her body since Aurora’s Awakening, and I want to prove the theories true.”

“Theories?”

“Yes!” She grew animated, “There are rumors of her survival. The Sword of Truth was enchanted, but it was never meant to kill her. Dark fairies are known to take on different forms to preserve their strength.”

Iris thought about it. She didn’t mind going into the Lost Lands, an abandoned island in the United Kingdom now sworn off to tourists and residents alike, but she shook her head. “No,” she said firmly, “we’re going to stay in the states for now. Did you get what we discussed?”

“Yes,” Webby said, going under her bed to pull out her backpack. “I didn’t think you were right about it, since it was just a hunch, but a copy of the blueprints was at the public library.” She searched through her backpack and found what she wanted. She waved the blueprints triumphantly and unrolled it on the bed.

“It has everything,” Webby pointed out. “This latest renovation was twenty years ago.”

“Is it dated correctly?”

“Yes,” Webby squealed quietly. “We won’t get lost using this.”

“And if it we make it out, we’ll be able to make it to The Archives without Quackfaster stopping us,” she added and looked at Webby, “you said she’s the public librarian?”

“She’s one of them, yes.”

“And she didn’t have any questions?”

“Nothing about this,” Webby shrugged. “And if she knows, I don’t think she’ll tell Mr. McDuck. She doesn’t have a lot of foresight. And I don’t think he pays her enough. That’s why she’s moonlighting at the public library.”

“I don’t think the public library pays very well.”

“Oh, it doesn’t,” Webby confirmed. “I’d say it pays well compared to rural, lower income public libraries, but the cost of living doesn’t match the salary.”

“Yikes.”

“Yep.” Webby rolled the map back. “As long as we can get to the Money Bin before anyone realizes we're gone, then we can make it to the Archives and find out -,”

“Girls! Girls, Mrs. McDuck is here.”

Their mission was forgotten in an instant. Webby and Iris shared grins and returned the blueprints to Webby’s backpack. By time they faced the door, she was standing there with her hands on her hips, smirking.

“Hey, Kid.”

Iris beamed. "Gigi," she said, breathlessly.

* * *

Strawberries was what her hair smelled of. “I need to ask Bentina what shampoo brand she’s using,” Goldie thought, but she pushed it to the back of her head when the ten year old ran to her, arms open. On bended knee, she wrapped her arms around the girl’s smaller frame and kissed her forehead.

“I see you’ve used the crossbow,” she smoothed her cheeks with her hands.

“You did?”

Goldie chuckled. “I can’t say it’s an improvement, but that’s what I get for giving you an adult crossbow. I should’ve gotten the child model, but you know how expensive things were in The Dark Ages.”

“Yeah,” Iris blushed. “B.B. says I can use it when I’ve mastered the wrist hold.”

“Good thing we’ll be working on that just in time for your secret island training course, or whatever,” she stepped back and grinned at Webby. “So what? No hug? No awkward pat?”

She spoke too soon. Webby propelled forward into Goldie’s arms, not quite a leap, and Goldie stumbled back, forgetting that Webby Vanderquack was Bentina Beakley’s granddaughter.

“I see you did not wait downstairs,” Mrs. Beakley quipped outside the door. “And...you tracked mud throughout the house.”

Goldie laughed. “Oh come on,” she laughed. “I was busy. I had some construction work to do downtown, and now, we’ll head off to the Plaza. Have a nice shower, some lunch, and who knows what’ll happen next?”

Beakley’s glare squared onto her. Goldie knew this glare, the warning touch that screamed promises rather than threats. She was not afraid. Not Goldie O’Gilt.

“I presume you would know,” Beakley said firmly, arms crossed. “The children cannot be put into danger for your frivolous exploits. Gold is nice and shiny, but safety is -,”

“Yes, yes, Bentina, ‘Safety is not a maybe,’,” Goldie drawled. She was amazed she remembered the rhyme, and a little embarrassed too. “Our girls are probably the strongest kids around. They’ll be fine, and we won’t leave for Hondorica until tomorrow. I have a few things to do this afternoon.”

“A few things?”

Goldie flinched and glanced at Iris. “Yes, just a business meeting,” she said slowly, but she added quickly, “It won’t take long. We’ll have the rest of the day to ourselves, and by tomorrow morning we’ll be off to Honodrica.”

Goldie wasn’t sure she believed it, but Iris nodded, smiling softly. “As long as we get to have room service,” she said, dragging her luggage out the door. “Can we put these in the side car?”

“How did you know I brought the bike?”

Webby grinned behind Iris. “You always bring the bike,” she smiled, “and Granny’s going to chide you for bringing the bike.”

“She’s right,” Beakley said, crossly. “I am.”

Goldie rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.”

* * *

“I can repeat it until my lungs frizzle up, and you will not listen,” Mrs. Beakley said. “A motorcycle is no way to transport children in a city like ours.”

Comfortable in a chair, Goldie eyed the sparkly decorations and overwhelming amount of pink. She grimaced and accepted she’d never get used to the sight. “It’s an interdimensional motorcycle,” she pointed out, “it can fit however much is needed.”

Mrs. Beakley wasn’t amused. “And I presume you’ve stuffed a lot of unmentionable items in your sidecar,” she asked sardonically.

“Eh, some stuff here and there. Most things people won’t miss.”

“I see.”

“Looks like Moneybags isn’t here.”

A light and stale observation, one so pointed that its end was sharp. Also redundant, Mrs. Beakley believed. They knew Mr. McDuck’s absence was known to Goldie the moment she stopped at the gate, and yet, she held onto these steadfast truths as if they were of no consequence to her. As if Mrs. Beakley played ignorance to her disappointment, hardened over the past ten years; that was what she wanted. Had Scrooge chosen business over her, she may have understood and accepted it. After all, their story was a tale as old as time, and everyone knew it. Business and greed was a irrelevant part of the problem.

Grief's untouchable surface was stronger than Excalibur's blade. It couldn't be penetrated or sliced. As he did in his money bin so many years ago, he dove into a miserable pin of regret and solitude. He didn't swim but sunk, deeper without any intention of getting out. As Goldie sat there, staring blankly at the colorfully decorated ceiling, Mrs. Beakley teased the idea that she had accepted their way of life until either either one of them died.

“You should speak to him,” she said, surprisingly. It was not something she planned to say, and for a brief moment, she was stunned at her initiative, and with Goldie no less. “Or at least tell him how you feel.”

“And you think I haven’t?”

“Have you?”

Goldie grunted, looking away. “It’d never work anyway,” she stood sharply. “He’s made his decision, and I’ve made mine.” The last word rang bitterly. It sounded like it was dipped in a vale of venomous tears. Mrs. Beakley was aware anything else she said on the matter would come to naught, so she said passed the subject over, and exhaled sharply.

"You can ensure the girls enjoy their time with you," she said tartly. “It means the world to them.” _'You do too,'_ dangled on an implication period but remained unspoken. She was certain Goldie heard it.

“Fine,” she ran her wing through grey-silver hair. Walking to the door, she didn't look back, “Do you have a spare English muffin? I skipped breakfast.”

Mrs. Beakley glared. “It’s in the microwave,” she sighed.

“Thank you,” Goldie chuckled, swinging out the door. Mrs. Beakley heard the motorcycle drive off in the distance as laughter danced in exhaust fumes.

"For some reason, I blame you," she grimaced to the water washed skies. She did not complain when the door shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introduced a little bit of Iris' character, along with her relationships with her family members.


	3. Chapter 3

A world wonder, The Blackjack Plaza enchanted residents since its completed construction in 1907. It is currently on an undefined list of “New7Wonders of the 2000s.”

Goldie provided pamphlets of the list for promotional purposes; a superfluous gesture as her hotel was one of the greats in the world.

She parked her motorcycle in front of the entrance. Her reserved parking space had come into good use, and she never regretted buying it off from the local government. The girls squealed when they stepped into the rotating door; the sensation was one they'd never grown tired of. Rather than annoyance, Goldie was charmed, smiling at their childlike amusement. It was hard not to.

The main lobby was in standard conditions. Men, women, gnomes, and others went about their business on smartphones and their families. It was non-stop, constant noise and movement. Goldie smirked, forever pleased with the sight of her progress and profit, but like all guests, though some employees claimed resident over guest, Goldie stopped at the receptionist desk and called out to the current hotel manager.

“Linda,” she yoo-hooed, pressing on the desk bell like it was an alarm. “What are you doing?”

In front of her Orange Pac, Linda concentrated on the spreadsheets maximized on the screen, but for Goldie, a quick side glance acknowledged her presence. “I’m notating all of the recent guests, Goldie,” she drawled. “It’s the Annual Junior Woodchuck - Chickadee Patrol Conference, also known as the AJWCPC.”

Goldie chuckled. “You were on the Chickadee Patrol,” she drummed her fingers on the desk. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

Linda playfully rolled her eyes. "My brother was a Chickadee Patrol accountant. Dad and I were Woodchucks," spinning her chair around, Goldie was perplexed to see a proud slash over Linda's amber rose blouse. Badges decorated from its start to end. 

"Practical Philosophy," Goldie read, squinting behind her bifocals. Dark eyelashes flashed to her employee, "I see why you majored in philosophy, but your counselors should've warned you about Liberal Arts degrees."

Linda's beak curled for an insult, but a quick glance towards the children sweetened her tongue. "Yeah, yeah, you've said it once, you've said it thirty times," she leaned over the desk, just a little, and grinned. "I see you've brought guests," she smiled. "Webby, Iris, how's it going?"

Webby jumped first. “We’re going to Hondorica,” she squealed. “And we may or may not discover the lost treasure of a long thought lost civilization!”

“You mean the unidentified locations where numerous helicopters have gone lost, never to be seen again?"

“You’ve heard of it?”

Linda cast Goldie a skeptical glance, then shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve read about it,” she typed away. “In the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook, but information is scarce. It's section in the JWG is based on second hand accounts, but there’s one consistency. Hondorica doesn’t like helicopters. Every helicopter that’s flown over or landed has gone mysteriously missing.”

Webby oohed. Iris awed. The latter jumped on the desk and scrambled to the top to meet Linda’s face directly. “It’s possibly cursed,” she said excitedly. “The native inhabitants cursed the land so all colonizers will face the wrath of their vengeful god!”

"I wouldn't blame them," Linda deadpanned. "Sounds like a good plan."

“Or…,” Webby suggested mildly to the side, slipping to the space where Linda greeted guests, “helicopters are mistakenly believed to be a sign of a dangerous deity long thought gone?”

Iris and Linda shared a glance.

“I prefer cursing colonizers,” Linda chuckled, “but who knows, it could be a case of mistaken identity.”

Goldie scooped Iris in one arm and gently prodded Webby on the back with the other. “Sounds fascinating,” she said, “and lucky for us, we’ll find out for ourselves tomorrow. Linda, hold my calls, will ya’?”

Linda grimaced. “You know I’m not your secretary,” Linda grimaced. “But...your one o’clock is here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “I told him you’d meet him in the Amber Rose Room.”

Goldie swung around and stared. An unusual tightness aged her already elderly skin, but as soon as it arrived, softness returned. “Alright, tell ‘im I’ll see him then,” she said, setting Iris down. “Send room service,” she ordered.

“Call room service,” Linda shouted back. “You have their direct line.”

“But they listen to you!”

Linda sent a glare that bode no argument, but right after, she exhaled, shaking her head. “Send a list of your meals, and I’ll have them send it up.”

“You will,” Goldie glittered, eyes bright.

“Oh my gods,” she bristled. “You are so fu -,” right at that moment another guest appeared, flanked with two small boys.

Goldie didn't stop moving, but turned completely, letting their banter end abruptly. Webby inhaled sharply, a very short gasp, and understood maturely that now wasn't the time to bring the matter up. Iris followed, oblivious, focused on Goldie's crooked smile rather than the cause for it.

“Can I press the button."

“No, I want to press the button," Webby pled.

“Okay, okay,” she Goldie groaned. “You can both press the button, but wait for it to appear first.”

With a pout, the girls did as told. On the elevator keypad were twenty white buttons, each associated with a number. Above the twentieth button was the smooth metal sheet, nothing else. Webby and Iris bundled in anticipation, waiting for the moment when the metal sheet began to separate. And it did. It seemed a trick of the eye, an unusual hallucination, but the girls knew the truth. A bolded number split and morphed metal into its preferred design; twenty-one shined brightly on its white button.

Webby and Iris didn’t hesitate. At the same time their fingers pressed the button, and the doors automatically closed, sealing them in. Where the other buttons colored a pale orange, the 21st button glowed a glittering gold. They stepped back, each on Goldie’s side, grinning as the elevator lurched. Its ascent started at a comfortable speed, slow to steady, and in the middle was where its progression quickened. Pressure crowded at the center of their skulls, and they gripped the railing bars on the side, doing their best not to fight against what couldn’t be denied. They flattened, smushed, and though it caused some discomfort, it wasn’t so much that they couldn’t handle. Their bones were metamorphosed into rubber; calcium softened and flexible.

As soon as it started, it ended predictably. It eased slowly. The pressure receded, and the elevator stopped. Their ride had ended.

* * *

Apartment wasn’t what they ever thought to describe the twenty-first floor. It was a miniature mansion inside, elaborately and tastefully designed. Goldie told the girls to choose their rooms, and they did so without hesitation. They deposited their suitcases in their bedrooms. Webby chose the Sirenum Scopuli theme; when she clicked on the light, the siren’s call echoed distantly. Iris jumped headfirst into the Lindworm’s Lair. Her webbed feet were swallowed in the mossy floor, and rather than testing her new mattress, she rolled to her heart’s content, lost in its earthly softness.

She rose at the sound of Goldie’s call. A call for attention and patience. She reluctantly rolled and stomped to the common living room, but not without stopping in what she presumed was her mother’s room. It smelled of metal and dirt, a unique odor she never associated with Goldie, though scents and odors weren’t a thing for Goldie in the first place. Her room was smaller than theirs, less refined and more minimalistic. Its interior was dotted with golden fleur-de-lis on cream wallpaper. The carpet tickled her feet as cotton candy did to her mouth, and she moved to the dressing table where a wide, antique styled glass mirror provided her reflection.

Iris stared at photos and trinkets, not many from what she was able to see. Glass figurines designed to look like dancehall girls. One had wide hips and long, ebony hair that was pinned to the top. Her eyes twinkled as sapphires did when set on water. The others weren’t nearly as decorated and were ignored, but the photographs were interesting. There weren’t many on her vanity, and the ones that were present held faces of people she didn’t know. A younger Linda beamed proudly wearing her graduation cap and gown, standing next to Goldie and another woman who looked similar to her.

Another photo was older, much older than the relatively recent one. She recognized Mr. McDuck and Gigi, pressed close against each other and smiling in a way that suggested extinction. They were set on some sort of stand, and standing beneath them were two women, one curly haired and the other light haired. Iris squinted. Instinct said she ought to have known these women, and maybe she did, some time ago. But her memory was fitful, and she couldn't recall. Looking aside, she saw the third photo where the same curly haired woman stood next to a mustached man; the difference was its color. Old and a little faded, their personalities peeled easier than its predecessor designed in greyed sepia.

A boy and a girl stood on each of their sides; one was disgruntled, the other pleased. "A sailor and a pilot," she observed.

Now wasn't the time to perform an impromptu investigation. Sensing Goldie and Webby's arrival, she pushed away from the vanity and was on her way out when when she spotted a sharp glitter in her peripheral vision. Stopping on her heel, she returned to inspect and saw a ringer residing in an oak jewelry box. Gently she raised the ring to her eye in the dark; the curtains were closed, and turned it, inspecting its golden sheen. Gold was true, she realized, no matter its misshapen form, and the form wasn’t like any she’d ever seen before.

Its ancient appearance and rune structures embedded on its skin indicated a Norse origin, but she couldn't confirm this without raising suspicion.

“Iris,” Goldie called again, “where are you?”

Iris jumped with a start and shoved the ring into her skirt pocket. She ran out, leaving the door as she found it to meet Gigi and Webby in the common living room.

* * *

“Your meeting has to do with Hondorica,” Webby asked, seated on the couch.

Goldie fastened the third bangle onto her ensemble. Her ponytailed hair was now styled into a 60s beehive, fastened with a black headband to the front. Slim, curled silver stands adorned the sides of her face.

“Yes,” she said. “My business partner lost an entire folder of investment papers twenty years ago in Hondorica.”

“Were they flying a helicopter,” Iris asked.

Goldie smirked. “Gonna have to say yes,” she clipped on her ruby earrings. “But we will not. We’re going to go through the city nearby. Think of it as a hiking trip.”

Iris and Webby shared a look. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“And we’ll get to look into the mythological and historical context of the lost civilization,” Webby pled with clasped hands.”

Goldie shrugged, “If there is a lost civilization, then yes, we may. Maybe. But this is a retrieval mission. Our task is to get those papers.” Her stare hardened, crackling gold around the edges of her emerald cut. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chanted.

“Good,” she walked up to them on the sofa and kissed their foreheads. “Now, Maurice will arrive shortly with your lunch, and I’ll be back soon after I’ve settled on the peculiars of this venture.”

She did as she said she would. One last warning of the stipulations of their independence rang clear on her tongue. Do not leave the room, she said sternly. The last thing any of them wanted was a disgruntled Bentina Beakley scolding them for their foolhardy exploits. The door closed without a click, and her footsteps faded immediately. The girls were left unattended to their devices. Webby faced Iris whose stare latched onto the unoffending door. Slowly, she sought her good sister’s gaze.

Identical grins cracked their plot's egg; fried, not scrambled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Blackjack Hotel has come a long way.
> 
> All feedback is appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

Desperation gilded her heart. Goldie pinched her wrist, ambling towards the elevator. Whatever desperation that laced her tongue and heart was what she needed; she maintained a steady head, refusing to lower or raise it defiantly. Her partner preferred confidence, and a lifted beak did more harm than good. No matter her fear, the reward for this partnership was better than gold.

The reminder eased her frown into a crescent moon. She patted the sides of her hair, ensuring no stray strands escaped its style. Her greedy plans resolved around satisfying multiple desires, meaning virtuous profit was possible. Goldie pressed her back along the elevator's railing and smirked at her reflection; curves in all the right sections, just enough to keep her partner on his toes. She picked lint off her black pants and grazed her shirt ruffles, unable to turn away. 

Her thumb found a gold band, aged and dented. "Humility, confidence," she breathed. "That's what I need."

And that's what she intended to give.

* * *

The girls wasted no time. O’Gilt business meetings were notoriously short, mostly due to Goldie’s undaunted (and underhanded) nature. Stern men and women alike fell to her charm, a weapon she perfected. Webby and Iris estimated they had forty-five minutes, an hour tops. Dawdling endangered their task.

Webby unrolled the blueprints on the table again and went over the mission. The Archives were open to blood relatives, but employees had access to other locations in the bin. She explained this was how she discovered copies of the renovation plans weren’t at the bin and were now public property, due in part to McDuck owning the land the town was built on..

It was insightful. Iris discovered there were rooms she didn’t know existed, but this was expected. The Money Bin, an integral feature of the city, had been barred to her for as long as she could remember. Gigi, B.B., even Duckworth spoke circles around her, despite knowing her comprehension skills weren't dull. She ignored their unintended insult.

“Isn’t Quackfaster insane,” Iris asked, worried. “She'd catch us.”

“She's going to give it a good, hard go,” Webby admitted. “Untold information lies in her domain. Its secrets are grand and dangerous, capable of great good and evil!”

Her pupils dilated, and saliva accumulated in her mouth. Webby wiped her beak. “We may be able to find out what happened ten years ago,” she continued, less animatedly. “And what happened to Della Duck.”

Iris nodded. The name, no, Della Duck's existence marred the family name. Glaring at the blue prints, she pointed to the highest point of the bin. "There's something they don't want us to know," she determined. "We're going to find out what it is."

“You know they really need to learn reverse psychology works both ways,” Webby grinned, rolling the blueprints back. “We just need to find a way to the Money Bin.”

“We could use the bus, or maybe a Diver?”

“Do we have enough money to pay for it?”

Iris procured a gold car out of her skirt as if it came out of thin air. “Maybe this can help,” she offered. “We just need to put the card information on our phone apps.”

“Where did you get this,” Webby asked, reading the name on the card and its expiration date.

“Mr. McDuck.”

“Wait, from this morning? He didn’t even touch you.”

She shrugged dismissively. “Close enough.” Someone kicked on the door, and they turned, eyes sharp. “Who is it?”

“It’s room service,” the person replied. “And Maurice.”

Webby used a stool to check the peephole. "It is Maurice," she confirmed, unlocking he door.

A short, bald man wheeled a cart inside. An aroma unlike any other made them dizzy with hunger, and they danced on their tippy toes.

“Maurice,” Iris asked, bending to the lower part of the cart that was concealed with a white table cloth, “did you get the thing I requested?”

The bespectacled man laughed and nodded. “Your order of white European, chocolate-covered truffles arrived right on time,” he patted the cart, “but lunch first, promise me that.”

Webby and Iris nodded. “We promise!”

His gap toothed smile warmed their hearts. "Chicken paella," he presented grandly, "with iced tea and lemonade.”

He placed the bowls on the center table, and the girls squealed their excitement. His scraggly beard wiggled as he positioned the dishes. His glasses sparkled, and they sat at the table, waiting patiently for their lunch to begin. He supplied forks, laughing as the children mixed tea and lemonade. 

“I can return the cart,” he started to push it out the door. “Henri would worry. It’s her favorite.”

“We can do it,” Webby offered, blowing the steam off her meal. “Gigi won’t be long, and it’ll give us a reason to convince her to take us downstairs.”

Maurice smirked. “Clever girl,” he opened the door. “I’ll tell the hotel manager you’ve gotten your lunch.”

“Linda won’t have to worry about us,” Iris smacked, humming as she devoured another spoon of chicken paella.

“As long as you don’t sneak into the kitchen,” Maurice grinned, closing the door behind him. Several minutes later they heard the gentle ding of the elevator descending back to the lower floors.

Webby and Iris shared a look, their meal beginning in earnest.

* * *

“I cannot believe Henri can make something so delicious, so quickly,” Iris patted her stomach. "Almost as good as Duckworth's."

Webby dabbed her beak and smirked. “It makes sense. She attended his culinary school, but don’t let Granny hear you. You know how much she hates any reminders.”

“Duckworth and B.B. got on famously,” Iris dismissed. “You remember story time?”

Webby placed their leftovers in the refrigerator. “Didn’t they try to kill each other during night time story time,” she reminded Iris. “Granted, they were reenacting the warrior tales of the Forlorn Princesses.”

“Didn't B.B. strangle Duckworth?"

"And he used a slip knot to kick her out the window."

Iris stared ahead. “The physics of that still confuses me,” she shook her head, hopping off the chair. "Anyway, this lunch deserves a truffle dessert."

“Sure! Just don’t eat too much. We don’t want to make it to the bin on full stomachs. It’ll make us sluggish.”

“Right, right,” she nodded.

She returned to the main room and saw the cart standing idly where Maurice left it. Nothing had changed on the surface, but Iris’ senses warned her something was amiss. She stared at the still table cloth and squinted, tilting her head to the side. It appeared the same as they left it, but it didn’t sound like it.

A shiver rose to the nape of her neck, and her muscles tightened. Clenching her fists, she approached silently. She opened her hand and bent her knees. “My truffles,” she thought as the sound of wet smacks and clanking teeth scraped along her ears. Whatever was sitting there was hungry, hungrier than it had any right to be. Iris held her breath and pulled.

A boy was crouched on the bottom cart, surrounded by packets of apple and cranberry juice bottles. He snapped to her, surprised and confused, but there was no time to utter a muffled ‘Huh?’. Iris grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out, pushing juice bottles onto the truffles. He yelped, dropping the candy box he'd taken for his stomach. Iris watched in horror as a half-eaten truffle rolled onto the carpet.

“That box was worth over five thousand dollars,” she gasped, stunned. “And you ate them under ten minutes?”

“To be fair, they’re really good, and I left some!”

She plucked the half-eaten truffle off the carpet, throwing him aside to the sofa. "Half-eaten," she growled. "What am I going to do with half a truffle?"

He grinned sheepishly. "We could half it," he offered uncertainly. 

What Iris did next was born out of anger, rather than instinct.

Webby returned to the common living area to find her sister and unidentified person tangled on the sofa. Iris twisted his arm around his back and pressed her other arm in his neck. He couldn't trash out or even whimper in distress. She leaned to his ear and whispered, "I can buy and sell you, little boy."

“Iris Agate!”

Surprised eyes skirted to Webby, and Iris exhaled sharply, removing her weight off the boy.

"What have we talked about attacking strangers," Webby crossed her arms, frowning.

"Ugh."

"What?"

"Strangers are friends we haven't met yet," she drawled.

“And?”

“Interrogation will separate friend from foe.”

Webby smiled, nodding approvingly. "Good," she bounced to the sofa and grinned at the boy. "Now," in a moment far too fast for normal vision, she pressed a fork beneath the boy's beak, resting the sharp point near his neck, "who are you, and what do you want? A spy? A minion of De Spell?"

The boy raised his hands instantly. "A what, the who," he gulped.

“Name,” Webby commanded.

He glanced from Webby to Iris, then back again. "Glad I met the good cop," he quacked "Dewey Duck, please don't shank me."

It wasn't instantaneous, or at least, it wasn't for Iris. Webby's eyes widened, and she swallowed her gasp to turn to Iris. Iris glared into her sister's incredulous stare, and felt the need to bite down on her own disbelief. She returned to the boy named Dewey Duck and tightened her glare so thin they were barely slits.

"Are you lying to us?"

"Why would I lie?"

"Dewey Duck," Webby repeated, amazed. "Related to -,"

Iris elbowed her sharply. “That name means absolutely nothing to us,” she replied quickly, casting a warning stare to Webby’s annoyed glare.

“I assumed it didn’t,” he replied shakily.

Iris' grin spread like a rusty knife. “Good,” she said. “That's good, right?"

Dewey lowered his arms and chuckled uneasily. "Um...gonna say she doesn't get out a lot," he said. 

“No,” Webby griped, still rubbing her ribs. "We do not."


	5. Chapter 5

When imprisoned in a tastefully designed penthouse, fear was fickle.

The _true_ horror - Dewey discovered - was his inability to explore aforementioned penthouse. The girls were diligent, having done their research in proper hostage holding, and used restraints that weren't normal ropes. Less scratchy but tighter, he sensed his slowed blood circulation and was forced into a chair that he was positive was made out of expensive velvet. Its deceptively soft surface tickled his feathers as he fought against the restraints. He didn't fight for long, and glared to the side where they argued. 

"Kidnapping is illegal in all fifty states," Webby hissed. "We can't keep him here! Someone will look for him."

He looked from right to left. The girl to the left greeted him with a wave and a name, Webby, and she introduced her companion, a similarly aged girl named Iris. Her glare was fitting for an older person, maybe a teen rather than a ten year old; it'd come in handy when she was older and taller. For now, she was an inch shorter than Webby, and her girlish red ribbon, tied in the back of her hair, gave off a tidy and darling disposition.

“We could use him,” Iris offered slyly. “We’ll need help in the city.”

"Didn't you hear what I said about kidnapping?

"We'll ask him," she proposed. "He won't be missed, or they won't notice long enough before the cops are called. By time that happens, we'll already be at the bin."

He leaned to the side, straining to hear more. The chair leaned along with him, tipping just so on the right legs, and suddenly, when he realized gravity was going to push him onto the floor, he snapped back. The legs snapped back with him, and four eyes snapped too, at him. _I'm not afraid,_ he thought for confidence. The girls were unusually strong and were dangerously adept at tying knots, but that didn't mean they were evil. 

They nipped towards him. Webby gripped the end of the black rope like bond. "You aren't a spy," she stated.

“Louie says I lack the finesse for spy work.”

“So he says,” Iris replied snidely.

“Honest!”

Webby wasn’t skeptical. “Your brother’s name is Louie,” she whispered thoughtfully. “Louie is a nice name.”

Dewey chuckled. “You should hear his real name,” he kicked idly. “But um, are you going to release me?”

“Yes,” Webby said. “But we need to ask something of you.”

“Is it really asking when I'm negotiating my freedom?"

Iris stepped forward. The room's odd lighting cuffed light around her like a fallen, melted halo, and she tilted her head, "We need assistance in acquiring a bus ticket.”

“A bus ticket,” he asked, confused. “Okay?”

“You can help with that,” they asked in unison. 

An uneasy laugh, "It's a bus ticket. Cash or card?"

“Card.”

“Hmm...maybe a Diver, but I’m sure my uncle has cash,” he mused aloud, then frowned. “Or not, depends on how much he’s spent at the conference.”

“He is useful,” Webby exclaimed, hopeful. Iris' skepticism didn't deter her, and soon, the sour girl sighed, conceding to her friend's optimism.

"Fine," unwilling to release the upper hand but knowing they were at a slight disadvantage, the girl approached Dewey and began to unwrap the restraints. Dewey tensed as what could've been rope fell off, and he hopped off the stretch, stretching his limbs. 

“You need help around town,” joints popped gleefully as he touched his toes. “I can make it work.”

“You can,” Webby squealed hopefully.

“Yep.”

“Doubtful,” Iris said, walking to the door. “But we don't have a better alternative."

When Dewey shot past her, brushing wind over her hair, Iris didn’t attempt to hide her scowl.

“If we die,” she pointed at Webby, “I blame you.”

“Oh please,” Webby smiled. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

* * *

They were falling.

No, that wasn’t right.

They were stuck in between falls.

In between falls, suspensions, and both girls gripped the railing. In the few minutes of their original meeting, they discovered many things about their new companion. He was not an only child; in fact, he was the middle son of identical triplets. His favorite color was blue. His favorite snack was black licorice. He was sort of potty-trained, and loved hearing his uncle's bed time stories. He had a healthy appetite, and this appetite may have led to a case of extreme sugar rush. Because only a sugar drummed idiot would have pressed multiple elevator buttons at once.

Or that's what Iris said.

“How many buttons did you press?”

“I don’t know,” he shouted. “All of them? I was overwhelmed.”

Iris glared. “There are twenty buttons on this panel, and somehow you managed to press thirteen of them at once,” she growled. “You activated the system lock out.”

“Why would there be a system lock out?”

“Due to the attempted robberies and murders,” Webby answered. “Do you remember The Red Dahlia?”

“The Red Dahlia?”

“Webby,” Iris turned, “don’t mention The Red Dahlia. He scares easily.”

“What’s The Red Dahlia?”

Iris’ glare narrowed. Webby sweated.

“It’s a flower,” Webby blurted, chuckling shakily at the end. “It’s a red flower that symbolizes betrayal and dishonesty.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “It’s beautiful though. There’s a garden outside filled with them.”

Iris rolled her eyes and grimaced. “Yes, they’re lovely,” she frowned. “I’m going to need your help,” she bit. “We need to get this baby moving before the technicians are alerted.”

“How can we?”

Iris pressed three fingers on the right side and motioned to the left and bottom. “Three on the left. Two on the bottom. It’s unlock it.”

Webby and Dewey did as instructed, and the lights flashed red, blue, and green. The elevator lurched harshly, tightly. It’s descent softened and continued, and the lights flowed that pale orange tint, closer to yellow.

“Louie’s on the tenth floor.”

“Louie?”

“His brother,” Webby said. “Why do we need to see him?”

“We’ll need an alibi,” Dewey explained. “Louie is our best shot.”

Iris hid her surprise well, but not well enough. “That’s a practical response,” she frowned, glancing at Webby. “Tenth floor it is.”

* * *

It wasn’t an immediate stop, nothing ever is. The elevator made its first stop on the eighteenth floor. The children crowded to the left of the elevator, making sure they were near the number pad and watched warily as others entered.

“I can’t believe we were kicked out,” a woman barked the second she settled in the elevator to the right corner.

Behind her a taller and shorter woman followed. The tall woman was curvaceous and blonde haired. Her appropriately powdered cheeks popped with red circles, like giant lollipops smacked on her skin. The short woman, barely scraping the tall woman's hip, crossed her arms and grunted.

The tall woman sighed, shaking her hips a little. “Did you talk to the little darlings,” her question eased out, reminding Webby of winter breath during the season's darkest months when air produced thick, visible balls of cold air. “We don’t want them getting lost, you know.”

“Lost?” Shorter than the blonde, taller than the ringlet brunette, to compensate, the stout and loud woman styled her auburn bouffant to a comical height, but no one laughed. She didn't appear to be the sort of woman who accepted laughter at her expensive. “Honey, those kids are making a killing at the patrols,” she laughed hoarsely. “What a brilliant idea was it to have them join The Chickadee Patrol.”

“I thought I was the one who suggested it,” the blond pouted, pressing her upper arms on her breasts. “Little Joanie loves their outfits, and they’re so dang cute.”

The short one grunted. “I helped Bette fill out the papers," she added, with a proud whip of her curls.

"Tuat t'en gross bueche," the bouffant warned. "Girl had to proofread your crappy spelling, and don't forget," she pointed a thick, sausage finger into the shorter woman's face, "it was my idea to stuff those filles in that damn pageant posse."

The short woman bent low and cried out in pain, clutching her head. Through her thick ringlets and fingers, a green hearing aid was seen under light. "Well sure, she fixed my wording," she said, though not without pride. "And your idea's working, ain't it? Wouldn’t be here if not for them, and we’ve got this chance, don’t we? Now, those wealthy -,”

“Babydoll,” the blonde scolded, “mind the bébés in here."

Three dark eyed, masked faces rounded to the children. The middle woman glared. The short woman blushed, looking away.

Webby, Dewey, and Iris nodded quietly and smiled, but didn't say anything to the women sharing the elevator with them. The blonde smiled, teeth that were stained yellow near the gums.

“Ain’t you a darling,” she chuckled. “They’re probably the girls’ age. Do ya’ like Chickadees hon?”

Iris and Webby smiled in return, an automatic response conditioned into them. There was something true and false about the woman, but what drew their caution was her stare. Too tight. Too sharp. Or it could’ve been the other stares to the woman’s right, each sharper and crueler than the other.

It was the middle, who’s hair was taller than a llama’s neck, whose glare twisted something in their chests. Iris and Webby flinched as she sucked on a bubblegum lollipop she fished out of her hair. They did their best not to wince.

“My brother’s a Chickadee,” Dewey said at last.

“Oh, that’s cute!”

“Brother?” The tall haired woman sneered., “Ain’t Chickadee’s a girl thing? What kind of little punk would join them?”

“That ain’t true, Bouffant,” the short one corrected. “The Chickadees integrated back in the thirties, and the Woodchucks began to accept girls in the 70s.”

“Yah,” the blonde set her hands on her hips. “And they both teach kids very insightful and important things. Think of all the good things our girls will learn.”

Bouffant sniffed loudly, then snorted as if ready to hack phlegm. Webby and Iris and Dewey did wince at the sound, grating to their intenstines and hearing. "Whatever, Boom-Boom," she swallowed. “The little corn dogs are getting us to the horn dogs, so shape up.” She patted her tall hair as the elevator slowed to the seventeenth floor.

The elevator stopped and dinged again when the doors opened. A large man, tall in height and wide in girth, entered the elevator. Beside him was an equally albeit normal sized man. They wore gold, diamond encrusted rings. Dewey stared at them confusedly, memory scratching for clarity, and his mouth opened a little as the large man’s face flashed across the television screen.

“Bouffie,” the blond woman squealed. “It’s The Mayor, and The Mayor’s husband!”

“I know who they are,” her sister growled. “Now, get that derriere moving.” She pushed the blonde's bottom with the sole of her heeled foot, and grinned modestly, “Pardon me, gents. We were happy to vote for you.”

“Thank you, good ma’am,” The Mayor said, tipping his hat.

“I just love your fashion,” Boom Boom complimented, grabbing the wall for balance. “And the things you do -,”

“Get to work,” her sister snapped. “Baby, you too!”

The shortest of the trio studied them briefly, nodded, and walked out the elevator without a second glance.

The Mayor and his husband glanced down at the children to their left, and they coughed, a little uncomfortable.

“Is this your floor,” he asked.

“No,” Webby said brightly. “We’re on the tenth floor.”

And for some reason, The Mayor and his husband exhaled sharply, laughing stiffly as they nodded between themselves.

“Oh, that is simply lovely,” he leaned forward to press the first floor button. “Now children, let's carry on. No time to dawdle.”

The elevator doors closed once again, but not before Bouffant’s shout rattled down the halls, demanding to know where The Governor’s room was located.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters revealed in this chapter can be found here: https://ducktales.fandom.com/wiki/Beagle_Babes.


	6. Chapter 6

“Goodbye, Mr. Mayor!”

“Yeah, if you’re running in the next eight years and using an improved social-political platform, you definitely have my vote,” Dewey waved.

The Mayor and his husband waved and disappeared out of view. The children stared ahead and frowned. From inside the elevator it was hard to see the complexities of the hallways, but the rooms were numerous and paths various. They didn’t know which way to go or which room they were supposed to knock on.

Webby asked Dewey, and he shrugged, as clueless as they were. “Louie didn’t give us a room number,” he tapped his beak. “He said the loudest room was where he’d be.”

“Where is this loud room,” Iris asked, looking around. “Everything is quiet.” Her observation was correct. The many hallways didn’t bristle with excitement and bawdy music, unlike the seventeenth and twelfth floors. It didn’t smell of nicotine and liquor, odors the mayor and his husband tried to shield them from, but none of the children realized this at the time.

They hovered near the elevators in doubt. Splitting up wasn’t an option, as sensible as it sounded. They’d seen their fair share of animated shows and horror films to know the outcome. Webby paced back and forth, fingers curled around her beak thoughtfully.

“He said loudest,” she said on her heel, staring at them. “It’s quiet here. So would the loudest be at normal volume?”

Three heads turned. “We’ll walk around quickly,” Iris said. “And whichever room is the loudest, we’ll knock.”

That was sensible. As a group they went through the first hall, staying close as they pressed their ears to each door. No sounds were heard. Iris and Webby did their best to not make a sound, fearing it would disrupt their investigation. Dewey was a safe distance ahead and pointed to the next hall. The girls nodded.

The next hall was no louder than the first, and they heard nothing out of the ordinary. There weren’t any whispers or dark hisses for them to run towards. Their frustration grew into confusion, and they stood at the end, unsure of what their next move would be.

“I don’t know what we should do,” Webby pondered quietly. “We need to find the room.”

Three heads came together in thought and were ready to regroup when a door opened. A young girl, around a similar age stepped a foot into the hallway. She was dressed in the traditional sky blue blouse and navy blue skort. She glared irritably at the trio.

“You are loud,” she said with a scowl, “and this is a no noise zone.”

“A no noise zone,” Webby thought. She didn't waste time to debate semantics. “Excuse me,” she said, “we’re searching for our friend's brother. Maybe you’ve seen him?”

The girl’s muzzle snarled. “Name and troop number,” she sniffed.

“Louie Duck,” Dewey answered. “And Troop Number...I dunno.”

The girl frowned. “Hold on,” she moved from the door and whispered to other people inside. She reappeared with softer edges. “Louie’s people? Alright, come on," she chuckled.

After exchanging surprised, but relieved, glances, the three walked into the hotel room and were struck dumb by their new surroundings. The room was larger than it appeared on the outside and darker. Neon light crossed the walls, originating from a revolving rainbow disco light installed on the ceiling. Dewey grinned ear to ear, hopping on his toes while the girls held hands, both excited and confused. Webby moved first, right after Dewey who went straight for the appetizer table.

“Is this The Chickadee Patrol,” Iris shouted over the music. “I thought they were dignified?"

“It’s what Duckworth said,” Webby laughed. “Is that a balloon animal?”

Iris anticipated Webby’s excitement was stronger than anyone could contain, and she wrenched herself free, leaving her alone in the center of the room. Her stomach clenched, then dipped, and she inhaled tightly, gripping her wrist as she braved through the sea of people. Fortunately, a lot wasn't wholly accurate; there were maybe twenty to thirty scouts in the room, all dressed in sky and navy blue uniforms. 

Lingering wasn’t an option. If they were going to accomplish their tasks, someone needed to remain focus, and from the looks of it, the responsibility was hers. She waded around, spotting Chickadees seated at various tables, playing games she wasn’t familiar with. Chess and checkers she recognized, but she was positive money wasn’t normally an accounted value. Soon, she realized money was significant for most available games in the room; some girls cried in anguish at the loss of their parents’ money.

“A gambling ring,” she murmured, staring at one girl as she fell to her knees, pulling her hair. She kicked and scream; shortly, a pair of girls dragged her away, tucking their arms under hers as she sobbed. She was handed a cup of juice, a napkin, and reassurance she'd make up the pay during this season's cookie run. Iris swallowed and moved forward, still astonished at what she wandered into.

She’d seen the inside of a casino before. Gigi recognized potential in their cooperation, and though they hadn't participated in any of the brightly lit games, they weren't denied a chance to observe. A ceiling distance, in fact, to coordinate her cards and chips. They didn't know any better, children roped in her schemes, and neither did the guests below. Iris gnawed on the thought as she meandered, glancing at the short ceiling as if she'd spot a camera or bug if she waited long enough. Slowing down, she turned where a young girl whose black hair was tied in braided pigtails leaned back in triumph.

The child to her front covered his face in defeat.

“Oh Lou Lou,” the brown faced girl grinned. “You had a good run. A great run, I’d say, but all good things come to an end.” She leaned forward and cupped the crumpled pile of dollar bills and coins. “Real shame too. I was just warming up.”

The child whimpered, groaning in defeat. Iris walked towards the game and noticed a hand slip off the table, into his pocket. The child raised her head, and she paused, confused at who she was looking at.

“Dewey,” she asked, head tilted.

The boy looked exactly like him, identical she would’ve said. If not for the Chickadee Patrol uniform and his flat bangs, she would’ve said it was him. But she knew better. The girl cackled with satisfaction, flanked on each side by a similarly dressed girl. Their united grimace was menacing and victorious, and they devoured his failure.

“Alright,” a boy and a girl came from the side. “Winner, Bette Beagle. Next one up.”

As Louie was escorted away, another assumed his place. Sucking in her breath, Iris followed.

“Yeah,” he took the cup of fruit punch quietly. “Played the game and lost, thank you.” He ushered the guards away, and leaned back in the chair, pressing the cup to his beak.

Iris studied him. He wasn't smaller than Dewey, but there was smallness about him, unlike Dewey. Identical triplets were identical; she didn't understand this. 

He was small. Not smaller than Dewey, which she didn’t think possible in identical triplets. His demeanor was separate, different. Sharper but not crueler, the small boy sipped his drink as he thumbed an unseen item in his pocket.

“You’re Louie,” she said softly, “right?”

“You’re no Chickadee,” he cocked a finger gun.

Iris didn’t know what his intentions were and assumed they were under than she suspected. “You shouldn’t cock a gun unless you actually have one,” she said tightly. “And are ready to use it.”

The boy looked at her strangely, confused. She recognized that unsettled expression. Overstepping was one she was used to, but she didn’t have time to correct herself. Dewey hopped into the vicinity, holding a plate of appetizers in one hand. She stretched her neck and saw Webby wasn’t far away. A balloon crown adorned her head, and she squealed, clapping in quick succession.

“The balloon animals are a killer,” Louie teased. “They didn’t waste a single coin.”

“And neither did you,” she said, eyeing the pocket where he slipped the gold coin off the table from earlier. “But that’s not why we’re here.”

“Oh,” his eyebrows raised. “So, who’s Nancy Shrew here, eh?”

“That’s Iris.” He pointed over his shoulder, “And the girl playing with the balloon poodle is Webby.”

“She’s requesting a bow tie for the poodle,” Louie said, then shrugged. “But why are you here?”

“We need your help.”

“Obviously,” Louie said wryly. “Why didn’t you call my phone?”

“Phone?” Iris looked to Dewey, who’d stiffened in embarrassment as he slipped a cocktail wiener into his mouth. “You have a phone?”

Louie laughed, shaking his head and patting his knee. “Dewford Duck, everyone,” he leaned back. “Rarely thinks things to the end. So since you are here, what’s up?”

“We need a cover,” Dewey said, swallowing his wiener. “I’m going to help them get somewhere, and I can’t have Uncle Donald ruining this.”

“Hm.” He tapped his fingers together, contemplating his options. “So,” he said slowly, “what’s your price?”

“Price?”

“I’ll give you the family discount,” he offered slyly. “Just two month’s allowance.”

“You know Uncle Donald doesn’t give us allowance!”

“He’s going to apply for that accounting job, so yeah? Could get a little something out of this.”

Dewey glared at his brother but searched through his short pocket. Iris knew what to expect and lamented she could’ve found anyone else to assist them on their journey. She buried her fingers into her skirt pocket and retrieved the soft, gold ring she pilfered. Her fingers uncurled off it like a rose in bloom, and she watched with cold satisfaction as the color plucked off of Louie’s face.

What had been arrogant was dull shock. Disbelief overrode his smugness, and trembling fingers feared to touch the soft gold, hard on her palm.

“Is this real?”

“It’s called the Draupnir,” she whispered. “Leave it in the sun, and you’ll get eight more rings exactly like it.”

“And you’re giving him that just to cover for us,” Dewey gasped. “And what about me?”

“What about you,” she smirked. “You didn’t request payment.”

He huffed irritably, scooping a cup chip into his dip.

Louie didn’t wait to slip the ring into his pocket, snuggled tight against the gold coin he’d taken earlier. Iris didn’t mind. Gigi’s jewelry was renowned, and she didn’t think she’d miss one, frankly ugly, gold ring. And if she did, Iris was sure she’d acquire the ring back without notice.

“Alright,” Louie smiled. “I’ll cover for you. Don’t disable your phone tracker. That’ll send him into shock.”

Dewey frowned. “Fair enough,” he glanced at Webby. “Let’s drag her out before she has a joy overload.”

* * *

Webby was happier than she’d ever known. It better than gold and sharpened acquired skills. The balloon scratched and wheezed, sharp noises cackled off her hair. She didn’t care or mind.

“So, the ring?”

“What about it,” Iris said irritably

“You just pulled out a gold ring?”

“Yeah, don’t you?”

“No.”

She sniffed. “Gigi won’t miss it,” she said indifferently. “And if she does, she’ll just steal it back.”

“Wait, who and what?”

“The elevator’s coming,” she deflected. “Webby, take that thing off your head.”

“Never!” She roared, “I am the Beast Tamer!”

As much as she wanted to be annoyed, Iris covered her eyes and breathed a small laugh. “Whatever,” she grumbled. “Lets go downstairs.”

They entered the elevator and resumed their normal practices. Guests entered. Guests exited. But more of the former occurred, pushing the elevator close to its capacity. The children stayed in the back, clutched as they did in their nests when they were still in their eggs. Down and down the elevator went, from the tenth floor to the seventh, and at the seventh was another stop. People left, and people entered. Webby, Dewey, and Iris stayed close, elbows touching as excitement grew in their chests. Soon, they’d be at the lobby where freedom was just a few steps away.

“And you really think you can get the investment papers?”

“When have I ever proven you wrong?”

Webby and Iris froze, an accomplishment considering the amount of warm-blooded bodied around them. Dewey glanced at their pale expression and sent them a confused stare. He noticed they weren’t the only ones who had gone silent in the elevator. All chatter and noise was silenced, and in their place were sharp, quiet gasps. He raised his head, stretching his neck as far as it could go.

“What’s going on,” he whispered. “Did someone die?”

Iris grabbed his beak, closing it. Webby pressed a finger to her lips.  
  
Spittle drenched her palm, but she gave no indication she was disgusted by it. Webby pressed her back on the railing and lowered her head.

Her balloon crown popped.

“Curse me kilts,” the man shouted. “Do ye’ not know how to run a quiet hotel!”

“It’s a hotel,” the woman replied snidely. “Any good businessman would know keeping happy guests is of the utmost importance, and certainly not a waste of money.”

The man grumbled at that. 

Before he was pulled down, Dewey spotted his aged whiskers and polished top hat. His heart skipped a beat, disbelief and shock, but it was mostly shock. The man standing a few inches ahead couldn't be real. It wasn't possible, and yet, it was. He nearly lost control of himself, wanting to scream as he scrambled up the old man's front, but Iris held firm onto his beak, willing him with a glare to deaden his voice. 

To everyone’s relief, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chickadees know how to have fun.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think this is fair,” Webby whispered.
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “I mean...not telling Dewey about you know who? And your relation to that!”
> 
> “Yeah?”
> 
> “Iris,” she hissed. “We know so much about him already. It doesn’t feel right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Along with work and other life responsibilities, I've gotten behind my normal scheduling, but that finale though.

Scrooge glanced on accident.

It was a reflex glance; one he hadn’t meant to do. A dalmatian controlled his surprise and made a quick visual b-line across the elevator. Their connection lasted no more than three seconds, but three seconds sufficed. When the dalmatian scurried away, Scrooge saw a child in the corner.

A little boy, no older than ten. He was dressed in a medium blue shirt on top of a lighter blue undershirt. The child’s eyes popped at him, a familiar aqua blue that made his heart stumble. As quickly as he saw him, he returned his sights to the front where Goldie stood beside him, a false smile smoothing the age lines under her eyes.

He remembered a time when her smile (or smirks) were truer than the sweet Earth beneath his feet. She’d been up for the challenge and the steal, and he was more than ready to chase her down to regain what she’d stolen from him. What happened to them? He didn’t have the heart to ask; he never did. A part of him knew where it went wrong, how it went wrong, but as his thumb ran circles on his hand, he knew spotting his errors wouldn’t do them any good.

He waited. She waited beside him, and the world around them was irrelevant. Her earrings were a dull garnet, and the gold chain around her slender neck was diamond marked. Appropriately dressed for the meeting to follow, he debated whether her attire was aim to impress him or impress her overrated standard.

He exhaled sharply. It made no matter.

This was what she did to him. Though no puzzle barred their path or mammoth threatened to tear them apart, limb from limb, he felt a prickle at the nape of his neck. Well formed nervousness crafted plots against him despite her having no reason to act against him.

“The girls are coming with me,” she said softly. “You will say goodbye, won’t you?”

He did not sway towards her thinly veiled ire. “I will,” he replied quietly. “Have you received any statements?”

“From the residents?” She scoffed with an eye roll, “What is this? Amateur hour?”

He was ready for a snap reply when the elevator came to an abrupt stop. Gravity see sawed them briefly, and the doors parted, revealing the busy lobby. Goldie offered her arm, and with an annoyed glare, he accepted her arm. Her perfume tingled in his nose, and his cane snapped into the floor appreciatively. As they departed, he sought the strange boy but couldn’t find him in the dispersed movement.

“What a peculiar lad,” he mused, then forgot.

* * *

He’d seen him on television and listened to Huey’s reiterations of his journeys. It's always been a dream of his, more of a distant dream since he knew it was unattainable, but for a moment, when their eyes connected, there was no one else in the elevator with him. Iris and Webby ducked in the crowd, hiding their faces, and residual body odors were fortunately on a superficial level, covered underneath sprays and perfumes.

“He saw me,” he whispered. “Scrooge McDuck and I shared a connection. Huey and Louie are going to be so jealous.”

“Scrooge McDuck did not see you,” Iris corrected, wiping her hand in her skirt. “And we’re lucky he didn’t.”

Dewey walked ahead, determined to hold onto that glorious feeling. “Why should I be lucky,” Dewey asked. “I am lucky. The luckiest non-lucky kid in the world. You should take note.”

“I suppose it is pretty neat Mr. McDuck saw you,” Webby said. “It isn’t like he pays attention to a lot of things.”

“Yeah, like his daughter.”

“What,” Dewey snapped around.

Her cheeks flushed, aware that she made another stumble.

“Draupnir,” she explained smoothly. “The ring I gave Louie.”

“That belonged to Scrooge McDuck?”

“Debatable, we can discuss joint assets and all, but he and Gigi were in Scandinavia,” realizing what she was saying, she stopped abruptly. “Maybe? It’s gold, and you know how much he loves gold.”

“How much does he love it?”

“More than anything else in the world, or so it is written.”

Dewey laughed and wandered ahead. He stretched his arms like an airplane, and zoomed to the front exit. Iris didn’t see any familiar faces at the front desk and sighed with relief, their journey was finally going to take off as planned.

“Do you think this is fair,” Webby whispered.

“What?”

“I mean...not telling Dewey about you know who? And your relation to that!”

“Yeah?”

“Iris,” she hissed. “We know so much about him already. It doesn’t feel right.”

“He told us of his own volition,” Iris defended. Getting upset over a frivolous topic didn’t do either of them any good. She hadn’t lied to him - not directly, and she didn’t drag the truth out of him. It wasn’t their fault they spent more time than necessary outlying her ancestral history.

“But that’s the point,” Webby read her unspoken undercurrent, “we know so much about him through research.”

“We know general facts,” Iris replied flatly. “Can you say in an honest breath that you knew Dewford Duck was a truffles thief?”

“Well, no, but -,”

“Exactly. We’re still feeling him out, and he seems to hold some intelligence. I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, sure,” she conceded weakly. “I’m just worried we’ll run into some other obstacle. One that can’t be talked around or bribed.”

“Remember what Duckworth used to say? Perseverance can withstand the test of time as long as you dig your heels in, but digging your heels is extremely impolite to do indoors.”

Webby nodded solemnly. “Yes, he used to say that a lot,” she admitted. It was a phrase reserved before their competitions, a simple match up between sparring buddies, and a reminder prior to their departure. He prioritized their safety but desired sharp and critical thinking skills, which could arise only when they strived for it.

Iris eyed her quizzically, as if she was combing through a haystack for a needle. “What’s going on in your head,” she asked, squinting. “I know something is turning.”

“We’ve had our ups and downs,” Webby exhaled. “But it feels like something is going to go wrong. I don’t know how to explain it.”

The unknown and abnormal were components of the world Webby adored, finding awe instead of fear. As they walked to the exit, she sensed the vague premonition stitched on the inside of her gut was worth investigation. Iris laughed lightly, dark eyes glowing mischievously.

When she spoke, it was a breathless whisper. “Webby, nothing’s going to stop us now,” blithe had overspun her tone, and the light in her eyes reflected a freshly rained rainbow.

“Dewey, there you are.”

In an instant everything was put on hold. Coming to an immediate halt, Dewey skidded on his heels and grinned sheepishly at the man standing to his front. His arms were crossed, and he glared at the boy. Webby and Iris slowed behind him, confused but captivated by the man’s stance. They were unable to process the unwarranted familiarity in his scowl and slightly hunched back, but the goosebumps pricking their necks told them to be on high alert.

“Uncle Donald,” Dewey grinned sheepishly, “funny to see you here.”

By the frown on his face, Uncle Donald was not amused.

* * *

“You’re disgruntled. That’s expected.” Goldie sipped her Grand Kru wine idly, setting it down to the side as they waited for their meals to arrive. “I suppose your meeting today was productive.”

“No,” he admitted squarely. “It did not go entirely to waste.” He brought the wine glass to his lips and frowned, “But it did not go as planned.”

She may have found some amusement in the intricacies of his day but decided this was the best moment initiate the meat of their conversation. “A change of subject,” she coughed lightly. “I’m going to need the location where the helicopters were last seen prior to the crash.”

Scrooge stiffened, just lightly. “The map is secured,” and he slipped a hand into his coat beside his ascot. “These are the coordinates.” Unfolding the paper, she passed a sly stare towards him; her brow raised slightly, measuring the risk and its rewards. Her head tilted back in such a way that warned Scrooge of the criticisms building on her tongue, and a faint involuntary motion of her right eyelid cemented his concern.

“What a convoluted mess,” she folded the map back to its former shape and slipped it into her jacket’s inner breast pocket. “No wonder the helicopters crashed. You’d think someone was deliberately misleading them.”

Her penchant for stating unwelcome truths hardened his heart over the past three decades, and Scrooge soured visibly. “I believe that’s the point,” he coughed stiffly. “But I know you’ll get over them. You always do.”

She arched an eyebrow, smirking. “It isn’t a problem,” she dismissed. “And of course, seeing the children will accompany me, they’ll acquire some much needed skills for their island expedition next month.”

Her intentions were apparent to him and her, and she spoke without a single accusation on her tongue. A passive attack, Scrooge scrutinized. He opened his mouth to snap at her - to peel away her protective layers, but his beak opened just to close as the waiter arrived with their meals.

Goldie didn’t wait for him to start eating. “Don’t hold your breath, Tightwad,” she sliced her beef wellington into quarters. “Bentina did it for you when we left.”

“I’m not worried.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I am worried that they’re going on a mission like this with you,” he said slyly. “You exacerbate situations, and we don’t need children getting involved.”

“Getting involved,” she chuckled, clasping her wine glass. “I’d say it’s rich hearing it from you, but honestly, it sounds like a poor old man’s whining.” She finished her sentence by sliding a piece of her meal into her mouth, humming in satisfaction at the sight of the vein throbbing in the center of his bald spot.

“Your intent?”

“If you want to ensure this trip goes accordingly,” she elaborated insouciantly, “then you should join us rather than pointing out the numerous flaws of whatever improvisation I come up with.”

“Goldie,” Scrooge inhaled. “You know why -,”

“What?” She set her fork to the side, leaning forward. “Don’t tell me you’re simply too busy and your thousands of businesses will crash in a single day?”

“Crash of 1929 ring any bells?”

Goldie rolled her eyes playfully. “Who could forget,” she said, reaching for his fist. “You stocked the food rations and your stock. We didn’t know what to tell -,” her grin lost its sheen, and she pulled back, uncomfortable. “Well, you know.”

Scrooge, silent, understood. “Yes, yes,” he coughed. “As you can see, it isn’t feasible for me to leave now.”

She wanted to ignore her annoyance and accept the rejection with dignity as he wanted, but a restless fracture of her heart challenged their expectations. She drank her wine, keeping a close eye on him for the duration and set the glass on the other side of the plate for a refill.

“An impressive dodge,” she replied. “But a dodge, nonetheless. Do you have any idea how much this means to her?”

He fidgeted in the booth, suddenly uncomfortable. Goldie always made him uncomfortable and other things. He accepted this was a part of their contract, a part of his love for her and hers for him. As her stare stretched and hardened on the edges of her emerald irises, he realized this discomfort was separate from their former antics, and he swallowed, choosing to drum his fingers on the table to fill the silence.

“I understand work is required to keep her belly full and a house over her head.”

Goldie huffed through her nostrils, glaring. “And what am I,” she snapped. “Just an incubator?”

“What,” he stammered. If his error had gone unnoticed earlier, it was clear as day now, “No, no, you’re -,”

“Scrooge, you may upkeep the house, but I -,” she closed her eyes. Her chest expanded as she inhaled.. When her eyes opened, they were smoother, clamer, “Let's just finish our meals. We’ll leave in the morning, and hopefully, we won’t have to talk or see each other for the next month.”

“Now, Goldie -,”

“Eat.”

She sliced the rest of her meal, unable to look at him, or rather, choosing to ignore his existence while demonstrating what control remained. Was this control directed to herself or him? He would have liked to know, at least to confirm his suspicions.

He did not gaze at the woman he had loved for the past one hundred and thirty years. Instead, he fixated on the paid meal on the table and sighed, spooning mashed potatoes into his mouth.

In the backdrop downpour strengthened, and sharp clunks clung to rain, clinking on pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the story is more focused on the kids and their interactions than the adults, so writing Goldie and Scrooge sharing a scene was very cathartic for me. Getting to Donald...Donald Duck...was also very important. I knew where and when the ball was going to drop, but it took longer than I expected.
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated. I am hungry for that feedback.


	8. Chapter 8

“I can’t believe you ran off,” Donald grumbled, snatching Dewey’s hand. “What am I saying,” he tugged him along, “I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off of you.”

Disappointment sunk his chest. His first true adventure reached a premature conclusion. He pled pitifully, for them to do anything, and the girls exchanged worried looks, not knowing what they could do against an adult. An innocent, non-threatening adult. But Dewey proved doing nothing sometimes worked best. His resistance agitated Donald's annoyance, pushing him to look over his shoulder to see the girls standing there. They twiddled their fingers, helpless and abashed. He shot down to his nephew where the boy dug his heels in, doing his best to delay the inevitable. Donald returned to the girls, who were aware enough to jump back in worry.

“Who are they,” he squinting, snapping his gaze to meet Dewey’s. “I don’t recognize them.”

Confused at his uncle's sudden question, Dewey licked the top of his mouth. "Iris and Webby," he introduced. "They're hotel guests." He sighed aloud, “Come on, Uncle Donald. They’re my friends, and you can never have too many friends.”

“Your friends,” he said warily. He stared at them. “Where are your parents,” he asked.

A sliver went up their spines, but Iris swallowed, stepping forward. “My mom’s at a business meeting,” she leaned in a half-curtsy, motioning for Webby to follow. “My sister and I were waiting for her to come back. We’re frequent guests.”

“Is this true?”

Sweat fell into Webby’s hair, and she gulped, nodding her head. “Yeah, yeah,” she said. Her peripheral vision caught sight of a familiar person walking towards the kitchen. Without thinking, she waved, “Hello, Maurice.” To their relief, Maurice returned the gesture eagerly. He waved enthusiastically and disappeared into a crowd of people, most likely heading to the kitchen for another room meal.

Where their friend was intended was a spec of dust in their minds; irritable and immediately dismissed. Iris grinned brightly, almost convincing Dewey that her smile was true. Webby was less convincing, standing awkwardly. The corners of her smile were strained, ready to pop like an over stretched rubber band.

It came as a surprise, as a relief when Donald expelled his breath and lowered his head, closing his eyes briefly. “Fine,” he conceded. “You can stay with your friends.”

“Thank you!”

“But you haven’t had lunch.”

Iris scoffed. “He had a whole box of -,” whatever she meant to say was cut through with a sharp elbow jab, and she inhaled sharply. “Of nothing,” she strained through gritted teeth. “He had absolutely nothing.”

“And you,” he asked, brow perfectly arched.

“Yes,” they said. "We've eaten, but thank you."

Donald didn’t roll his eyes, though they suspected he wanted to. “Either way, I know he hasn’t had lunch,” his grip around Dewey’s wrist tightened. “We’re going to the food hall. Huey’s waiting there with Babs.”

Dewey frowned at the sound of that. “Oh no, not Babs,” he whined. “Please, anyone else.”

“What’s wrong with Babs?”

“Nothing!” He managed to twist his wrist free, and he massaged it, annoyed. “She talks a lot. Like a lot a lot."

“So what's the problem?”

Dewey shot a glare that the girls recognized instantly. It was the same glare Duckworth used to give them when they asked a question where the answer was already known, in a sad attempt to play a false game. It never worked for them. Duckworth was too smart, too clever, and knew them too well, but he always smiled once the glare passed.

To their credit, they did not know the answer, making their question genuine, and Dewey did not smile.

Donald did.

“Oh,” he rolled his eyes playfully. “You mean her parents.”

“You get into an argument with her dad every time,” Dewey said, crossing his arms. “And we don’t want to get kicked out, again.”

“Trust me, we won't get kicked out this time,” Donald grinned reassuringly. He led the way to the hallway, leaving the children with shaky assurances. It certainly didn’t sound convincing, and there were questions both girls wanted to ask. But they didn't want to push their luck, not that they considered their current fortune lucky.

* * *

“We’ve gone too far,” Webby whispered.

Iris shrugged. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an idea to get us out,” she said, keeping an eye on the pair walking in front them. “We can always make up an excuse.”

“And what about Dewey?”

“What about him,” she griped, exasperated. She looked at Webby with confusion and annoyance, “He’s of no use to us anymore, and it isn’t like he isn’t safe. He’s with his uncle.”

Webby held fistfuls of her sweater vest, twisting in worry. “That’s the problem,” tension teethed into her voice. Iris abhorred the sound on account of the surrounding pressure near her chest. She didn’t understand what it meant and didn’t want to find out. “He doesn’t know what we know, and what we’re trying to do,” Webby continued, “it’s wrong to keep this secret from him when it involves him.”

“It doesn’t involved him.”

“His family,” Webby emphasized. “Your family.”

Webby was good at making irrefutable points, and normally, Iris debated with her until their faces were blue. But now wasn't the time. She cast a cautious eye to Donald, waiting for the ball to drop. Secrets were plenty in the mansion; discovery relied on patience and perseverance. Fortunately, she had both. Various information mediums were carefully hidden in the mansion, due to Duckworth’s intervention she believed, but she found portraits and journals, and devoured him like the hungry nugget she was.

Of the many they were able to discover, Donald Duck had proven his prominence. He hadn't aged much from his most recent portrait, she observed. Signs of stress were unavoidable like dark shadows cradling his eyes and flaky feathers - less refined and lacking a healthy sheen most avian species possessed, but he appeared mostly the same. The most significant change, she realized, was the smile, or lack thereof. His portraits portrayed a young, excitable duck. What she and Webby met was an aged fowl toting a disdainful scowl reminiscent of the one she'd grown up with.

She tilted her head, intrigued. So many questions, so little time. What was responsible for this change, she wondered. What robbed him of the fire in his heart, replacing it with this sad, overprotective, overworked creature before her?

“We’ll tell him,” she decided in that moment as they made a right turn toward the food hall. “We’ll tell him when we make it there,” she pressed quietly, bumping her shoulder to Webby’s. “For now, we play along. We’ll bide our time.”

Time bided for them. As they approached the food hall, the conglomeration of voices clang excitedly in their ears. Iris leaned close to Webby, gripping her hand; despite her moral dilemma and very slight annoyance, Webby smiled, thumbing reassuring circles on her knuckles.

The food hall was almost as spacious as the grand hall on the second floor, potentially wider due to its accommodations. The Blackjack’s renovations were inched into the original infrastructure and was completed in a timespan of five years. Neither Webby or Iris were present for these machinations per Mrs. Beakley’s instructions, but the air vents were small, and so were they.

Iris couldn’t explain the feeling when she entered the food hall, as if a wave of flesh and vocalization had fallen on top of her. Webby’s proximity was a warm blanket over her anxieties, and she bit down on her cheek, refusing to relinquish control to her quickened heart.

Their table was to the far north side, away from the window and on a somewhat elevated level. At their shortening distance, Iris saw the third triplet, and from her records, the oldest. He was dressed in a traditional Junior Woodchuck uniform and dined happily on a plate of mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and sirloin steak. That wasn’t out of the ordinary, she soon realized; what was who he sat with.

He wasn’t alone. To his front was a light grey rabbit, whose hair was twisted in waist length plaits, violet bows gracing their ends. Flanked on each side was a parent; one, a long eared, slim rabbit who munched casually on a carrot he procured from his pocket. The other was a slim, fashionable black duck, whose blond hair was cut in a typically voluminous bob. They were engrossed in conversation, unaware of their arrival, but Huey turned at the right moment and saw them. He smiled, waving at them, and the other three heads did the same.

“Remember your manners,” Webby said, wincing at the tightness slowing her circulation. “And remember to smile.”

“Yeah,” she quacked, softly. “Smile and charm, just as Duckworth used to say.”

* * *

Webby was excited, more excited than she'd ever been in her ten years on the planet. She’d seen worlds unknown to man and discovered scripts that were believed to be myths, but this was an entirely different experience. Throughout her travels and among her discoveries, access to the population, to other people, was expressly forbidden. There was always a chance of deception, of betrayal, of something terrible happening that Granny wanted to prevent at all costs.

Like an understanding granddaughter, Webby respected Granny's intentions. As one of the world’s greatest spies, she was both a witness and victim to humanity’s crueler derivatives. Her overprotective tendencies were warranted, but not always agreed upon.

“Duckworth was the opposite,” she thought, and remembered with summertime fondness. He was equally cautious and firm in that predictable British manner (one Granny respected but would never admit), and he admitted caution was an unfortunate requirement for all paths of life.

“We can balance caution with risk,” he said at a sparring conclusion. He placed Webby on the side and tended to her sprained wrist. She could never forget his tender fingers as he administered medical attention. She held her breath, so tight that she thought she might faint, and blushed like the child she was, almost ashamed to be so near him.

“Can we?”

“Of course we can,” he laughed. “How do you think Mr. McDuck and your grandmother achieved their greatness.” He smiled wryly, “I suppose some dumb luck may have helped now and then.”

It was an old memory, not nearly as old as she imagined, but old enough. She recalled this memory, deciding Duckworth must have wanted her to branch out rather than recede from the world as her granny and Mr. McDuck did. When she’d taken her seat among these new people, new friends she corrected, she didn’t cower or grow mute.

“Hi, I’m Webby,” she smiled, and something in her heart bubbled when they smiled back.

* * *

Babs did talk too much, but she had a lot to say, Iris presumed.

What the rabbit talked about, Iris determined, was frivolous; she didn’t need to pay attention to know it. The black duck was the same. Spittle sprayed on the table over their plates, and she restrained her muscles into remaining docile. No need to offend her allies with a cringe and revolted scowl. She liked to believe their senses were drawn elsewhere, due to the duck’s unique speech pattern, but she sensed this was common placed.

“We’re wasting time,” she mused. “What can I do?”

Webby entertained conversation with Huey and Babs, engrossed in the many rules of the Junior Woodchucks and Chickadee Patrol. Dewey gorged on a meal Donald provided. “I suppose my truffles didn’t sate his appetite,” she raised her brow.

Their current entrapment was unique. Their usual skill set was useless. Weaponry was certain to alert the guests, unleashing disorder and chaos she wasn't equipped to seal.

“Great,” she chewed her cheek, “what am I going to do now?” She searched for an exit point, a way to sneak past without detection. There were none. She wanted to scream, but screaming would do nothing but alert everyone to her frustration.

She smiled instead, training its sweet curve in Babs’ direction. Webby didn’t mind. In fact, she couldn’t see the smile beyond the other girl’s voice. Whatever. Iris clicked her tongue irritably and returned to the people in the food hall, smacking down on burgers and returning to the buffet station for more. Mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, every variation of a familial relation appeared at peace; they laughed, teased, and nothing was amiss.

Until it was, but that wasn’t an accurate description.

Nothing was amiss for the guests enjoying their meals. Their content assured positive hotel reviews, and from there the reputation of the hotel would strengthen, reaching across borders. Gleeful expressions read their approval. Iris was the one lost in amiss, and she swallowed deeply, feeling lightheaded at the sight across the way.

Linda had her hands on her hips, frowning. Security were on her left and right; a man and woman of reputable size and muscle. Iris didn’t recognize them, and she didn’t have to. Their reason for being here was obvious, and Linda's determined gaze told her all that she needed to know. Gripping Webby’s knee, she squeezed as tightly as she could without causing pain, and kept her silence when her sister faced her, confusion drawn.

Iris lilted towards the door. Webby trailed in the same direction.

She gasped.

She returned to the front, shaken.

“I think,” she whispered. “It’s time to leave.”

“Hm,” Iris drawled. “What gave you that idea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We need a chatty Babsy in our lives.

**Author's Note:**

> I did not plan to post this so soon, but I did anyways. Hello!


End file.
